


Ivan's Story

by orphan_account



Category: The Most Dangerous Game - Richard Connell
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Drama, Gen, Insanity, Ivan gets a backstory, OOC warning, Violence, among other questionable content, no sexual content M rating is for violence, ram truck, read with caution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 21:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18786289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Have you ever wanted a backstory for those random background characters in short stories you read in English class? Me neither, but here is the tragic backstory of Ivan in all its unedited glory, written by my classmates and me during our seventh grade writing phase!





	Ivan's Story

**Author's Note:**

> Read with caution; questionable content abounds.

**IVAN:**

**A Story of Pain, Hardship, Death, Tears, Sweat,** **Blood** **, Slavery, Family-ripping-apartness, Abuse, and Insanity. All Involuntary.**

**(*WARNING: CHILDREN ONLY! NOT INTENDED FOR**

**ANYONE OVER THE AGE OF FIVE!*)**

"NOOOOO!" Ivan screamed, but then was abruptly cut off as the general hit the gas pedal. The Ram Truck whirred to life and sped along the

rocky terrain of the jungle. "ZAR-" And then there was silence.

In the beginning, there was a house. In that house, laughter pierced the night. It was the laughter of Ivan Uskyldige. He was a happy baby, and never cried, only laughed. He and his family were content with their lives as simple farmers.

This week, Ivan's father was to go to the market and buy some supplies for a shed that they were building. Ivan waved goodbye to his father as he went down the road on his horse and cart. He stood looking at the window until his father disappeared from sight, just another speck among the hilly fields.

"Ivan," his mother called. "Come, it's dinner time." And Ivan went.

After ten days, his father had not returned. For the following weeks, Ivan adjusted to the new routine that had developed due to his father's unusually long absence. Soon, he fell into a pattern. Everyday he would wake up, eat breakfast, do his chores, eat lunch, explore, have dinner, wash up, and then go to sleep.

Six days after his father left, Ivan went further than he ever had before. He climbed far hills and stumbled down brooks and streams. But he still heard his mother's call, and he returned swiftly. And then it began to rain.

The stars were suddenly blocked as dark clouds covered the Ukrainian sky. A flash of lightning danced across the clouds followed by a crash from the heavens. Rain started to trickle down from the sky. All that was beautiful was soon to be lost.

The small little cottage was soon covered in shadows. "Ivan, go change clothes and wash up so we can have dinner." As soon as Ivan left the room, a sharp rapping came from outside. Mrs. Uskyldige opened the door. A curved knife with faint maroon stains from previous kills and innocent doves painstakingly carved delicately into the hilt, contradicting its use, sliced easily through her rough, tattered peasant clothes, and her body dropped to the floor. In, out, in, out. The body was now littered with stab wounds, blood cascading out of every hole in Ivan's mother. The white floor would be forever stained red.

As she took her last breaths, her dying body managed to hear one last thing. Ivan said, stepping out of his room, "Is that you Daddy?"

"No-" her final words were cut off as she was trampled by the intruders as they walked into her home. She was dead. Gone.

The intruders decided they were not done destroying Mrs. Uskyldige. They whipped out double barrel shotguns and riddled the dead body with bullets. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! They were merciless as they continued to shoot. When they were finished, there were more bullets in the body than bones. Ivan's mother became as heavy as wet sand because of the large amount of metal in her.

In addition, the intruders left some knives protruding from the soulless human.

It became hard to tell the floor was ever a color other than scarlet.

Shortly after, the infiltrators dragged her soulless body outside and drove over her with a Ram truck. Guts. Glory. Ram. The truck for  _all_ terrains. If you do not own a Ram truck, you should die in a hole. Forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, until all her organs spilled out of the tattered remains of a body and were crushed. Blood stained the gravel road, as it did everything else. Literally, everything. Even the truck.

Ivan climbed out of his bed and walked across the floor to the door. He opened it and started down the long hall to the trophy room, where he knew Zaroff would be. The house he now lived in seemed like home. He never remembered living anywhere else. He saw the light from the fire bounce off of Zaroff's many medallions that decorated his Army Service Uniform. The general looked up from his novel  _Snow Leopards in Tibet: The Most Dangerous Game._ Zaroff muttered to himself, "Let's see about that."

"What did you say, Daddy?" questioned a small Ivan, confusion written all over his face.

"Nothing, son. Why are you up from bed so early?" responded the general.

"I wanted to hear the story about how you rescued me from the scary people and brought me to the island."

"Well, it was a long time ago. 5 years, can you believe it? You were a small baby, and the wicked men snatched you up and took you away."

"And you rescued me!"

"I thought you wanted to hear the story, not tell it." chuckled Zaroff. "Yes, I found them kidnapping you near your house."

"Where were my parents? Why didn't they do anything?" little Ivan questioned, his big puppy-dog eyes longingly looking up at Zaroff.

After a brief hesitation, the general responded. "Well… Your um…. parents were nowhere to be found. Wherever they were, they were not at your house."

Ivan stood by Death Swamp reflecting upon his years on the island. He couldn't believe it had been 14 years since the kidnapping. He was 16 years old. Occasionally people came to Ship-Trap Island, but his life felt lonely, like a lost dove that couldn't find its way back home. He enjoyed his life hunting with Zaroff on occasion, but he knew something was missing.

Zaroff wasn't the same anymore. Doctors started coming in once a month to deliver a serum that would help the general with his unstable mental condition. Desperate attempts were made to rid him of his recently adopted pack of dogs. Ivan couldn't remember when raw, guttural, inhuman screams didn't echo from the depths of Zaroff's study. If he really tried, Ivan's mind could occasionally grasp a conversation they had discussing the kidnapping a million years ago. Ivan could remember when the doctors were late and Zaroff had his first psychotic episode-

A shriek pierced the night. Ivan shot up.  _Shouldn't the doctors have come already?_ he thought. He threw on his robe and raced to the study, where most nights Zaroff fell asleep poring over books about hunting, all written by this singer with a peculiar name, something along the lines of Rain and Board.  _But Zaroff had already finished the new shipment of books…_ Once he got there, he slowly opened the door. His flashlight handle was slick with sweat. At any sign of aggression, he would not hesitate to hit Zaroff. Or so he thought. Out of nowhere, Zaroff pounced on Ivan. Ivan tried to reason with him first, but the general knocked the flashlight out of his hand. The room went dark. Foam from Zaroff's mouth dripped slowly and steadily onto Ivan's face.  _Drip, drop, drip, drop._  He panicked as Zaroff's face, lit by the dying moonlight, came into view. His eyes had a crazed, bloodshot, desperate look. Ivan struggled, but he could not escape the vise-like grip of Zaroff. The general that he knew was gone.

"Hello. Have we come to play?" Zaroff threw his head back and let out a howl that would frighten monsters. "I have been waiting for a friend to play with for a long time. Oh. yes, we will play the game. We will play the game until there is one winner. Only one can win…" Ivan could not understand the man's crazed rantings, but he knew that they had to mean something, only he did not know what.

"HELP!" he screamed until his throat was raw and his voice hoarse. Just as he thought he was about to die, the doctors raced into the room and pried Zaroff off of Ivan. He gasped as fresh air entered his lungs and expelled the tainted cloud of air that he had been breathing in.

The scientists held down Zaroff, and one of them grabbed one of his arms and exposed a bulging vein into which they plunged a needle with a sickly yellow serum into his body. The general instantly went still in one of the doctor's arms.

All Ivan could remember before he was drugged and dragged to his room was him thinking  _What_ was  _Zaroff doing in the study..._

 _Maybe it was just a bad dream,_  Ivan thought as he stared longingly off the coast of Ship-Trap Island. But in his soul, he knew it was not so. That was not Zaroff's only episode. Ivan could hear the shrieks from his locked room. All he could do was wait for the doctors to come. If they did not, Ivan might have to use the spear he made from the tree outside his window. It could not come to that. Ivan started back to the house where his accursed "father" lived.

When he reached his house, he noticed Zaroff banging on some metal behind the building.

"What might that be?" Ivan questioned Zaroff as he rounded the house. He now noticed that it was not just some random piece of metal, it was a machine with dark, black liquid oozing out. It covered the ground near it, and killed everything that it touched, leaving only a decaying corpse of what once was. Ivan noted to be careful not to step in it.

"Good question, son-"

"I AM NOT YOUR SON!" Ivan snapped, "A father does not attack his son when he tries to comfort him until the doctors arrive! A father does not keep his son trapped on an island with no one else but his psychotic self! A father does not keep information from his son about his true parents! Yes, I am sure that you know more than you are telling me, Zaroff."

There was a brief hesitation before Zaroff spoke, "You need not worry about the machine, Ivan."

Zaroff returned to his study slowly, not looking back.

Ivan reached the age of 25. Deep in his soul, he started to realize that the island was his only fate. Nothing lay before him except solitude and his psychotic guardian. He turned his head and noticed a songbird launch off a tree and start to fly across the blue, serene ocean. To what lay beyond. Ivan wished that he could be that bird, flying across the ocean to-BANG! The bird's corpse fell into the depths of the sea, creating only a small disturbance among the ever-moving waves.  _Zaroff_ , Ivan thought to himself.

"Now why did you have to do that, Zaroff?" Ivan called out to the figure approaching him from the left, the trail of smoke following him like a beacon.

"Why, he was leaving Ship-Trap Island! No one leaves this place! Don't you know that son?" Zaroff replied, a psychotic look in his eyes, contorting and twisting his features into a shadow of the man Ivan had come to fear once the screams started.

Ivan ran into the depths of the jungle, not caring where he went. Anywhere was better than there. He ducked under curving branches, avoided patches of quicksand, and almost ran into the house.  _Of course,_ Ivan thought,  _No matter how hard I try, I will never leave._ Zaroff has assured him of that.  _I will never leave._

Ivan decided to put his plan into action. Zaroff wouldn't decide his fate.

It had been a week since the bird incident. Zaroff was nowhere to be found, not even in his study. With most of the preparations in order for his plan, Ivan went to the library in the colossal house. He looked desperately for a novel not about hunting, as that was Zaroff's reading preference. At last, he found a single ripped piece of paper lying on the floor. It clearly used to be part of a book, and by the looks of it, a poetry book. It must have been torn out during one of the general's psychotic moments. He picked up the poem and read it:

_Invictus_

_By: William Ernest Henley_

" _Out of the night that covers me,_

_Black as the pit from pole to pole,_

_I thank whatever gods may be_

_For my unconquerable soul._

_In the fell clutches of circumstance_

_I have not cried or winced aloud_

_Under the bludgeonings of chance_

_My head is bloody, but unbowed._

_Beyond this place of wrath and tears_

_Looms but the Horror of the shade_

_And yet the menace of the years_

_Finds and shall find me unafraid._

_It matters not how strait the game_

_How charged the punishments the scroll,_

_I am the master of my fate,_

_I am the captain of my soul."_

Ivan wept. He wept for himself, for his parents, and for the bird. He wept for the immense burden on his shoulders, and for the fate looming in the future. He wept for all that he was and all that he was not. He wept for the dove that could not find its way home.

Alas, he had to continue with his plan before the general happened to turn up. Ivan knew that it was time to act.  _I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul._

The boat was on the other side of the island. All Ivan had to do was make it there, and freedom was his. He could sail away, be free of Zaroff, the island, and the painful memories that came with it. His freedom was so close he could taste it. He just has to cross the island.

Ivan opened the door and sprinted straight ahead.

 _Haven't I already passed this tree?_ Ivan wondered. He had been running for what seemed like hours, but wasn't getting anywhere. He was bruised and battered. He was short of breath, and every time he took a breath in, a sharp pain lacerated his side and managed to almost completely stop him in his tracks. He had managed to trip over a fallen log and tumble down a hill, hitting sharp rocks and roots jutting out from the crumbling dirt everytime he hit the ground. Pausing for breath, Ivan sat down hard on the nearest rock.

"IIIIIIVAAAAANNN…" the general called and repeated over and over again.  _Zaroff!_ Ivan almost had no time for a game plan as he raced as far away as he could from that voice. He knew what would happen if he was caught.

 _Last stretch!_ Ivan raced across the sand. THUMP! His ankle caught on a piece of driftwood. His ankle was in excruciating pain as he struggled to get up. He limped-ran to the boat, but his efforts were wasted. Zaroff had caught him. The end was nigh.

"NOOOOO! Zaroff, I'm sorry!" he screamed, but to no avail. "DADDY!"

Zaroff bitterly laughed. "Ivan-  _Son-_ If you wanted to stay whole you should have just listened.  _Daddy_ knows best. I have to say, our little hunt was fun. I might have to elaborate on that one day. " And then, with a cynical laugh, he left Ivan all alone, lying the ground, his hands tied by ropes to trees.

At that moment, Zaroff briskly strolled away and when he returned he was driving a Ram with chipped paint. Dried blood speckled the bottom half of the truck. At that moment, it all became clear. Everything was a lie.

"NOOOO!" screamed Ivan, thrashing wildly against his bonds. "YOU LIED TO ME! YOU'RE A COWARD! YOU KILLED THEM! I HATE YOU!" Even during this, Ivan made a promise to himself that he would do everything in his power to never, ever be happy to live with the murderer of his parents.

"I hate you too. Now maybe you'll learn your lesson." After a brief moment of anticipation as to what was going to come next, Zaroff tied a strong, thick rope to his tongue.

"NOOOOO!" Ivan screamed, but then was abruptly cut off as Zaroff hit the gas pedal. The Ram Truck whirred to life and sped along the rocky terrain of the jungle. "ZAR-" And then there was silence. The tongue flew out of the mouth, spewing blood over the porous ground. In addition, blood oozed out of Ivan's mouth coloring his chin red along with all of his clothes.

Ivan was surprised how hot, sticky, and dark the blood felt on his body. It might have been his imagination, but he saw his blood sizzle as it fell to the jungle floor.

A few moments after, Zaroff discarded of the tongue by tossing it in the nearest bush, where it was devoured by one of the dogs. "Now that that's done, I'm going to go make some tea." He hummed a happy tune to himself as he walked towards the mansion, leaving Ivan to fall unconscious, dangling from the looming trees with blood cascading out of the hole in his mouth.

Ivan tried to sob. It hurt. Ivan tried to whimper. It hurt. Ivan tried to speak. It was impossible. And it hurt. He could not eat nor drink, could only try to cry and then hack up blood instead.  _Why?_  Ivan moaned inside his head. His spirit was broken.

Nothing changed. All Ivan did was stare into the wall in his room. He would not move, eat, or breathe other than his last minute breaths, as if he were trying to kill himself. His body went from healthy to malnourished and atrophied.

"Ivan-son-please…" Zaroff would sit by his bed and beg for forgiveness some days, staying up all night sometimes, begging his son to live. He would sit, moan, cry, and rock back and forth, but Ivan did not move.

Other days Zaroff would scream at Ivan, saying he deserved it, foam flying out of his mouth. He would go on a rampage, throwing chairs against the wall, splinters dancing through the air, but Ivan did not move.

Eventually Zaroff stopped visiting. He let Ivan be in solitude. And Ivan did not move. Except for the lone tear that sometimes rolled down his cheek.

Ivan was in shock. He wanted to snap Zaroff in half, to give him pain tenfold anything he had experienced and was experiencing, but his body would not let him. He was a prisoner.

A finger moved. Then a hand. Then an arm. Then a toe. Then a foot. Then a leg. Then a body, its limbs and joints creaking, moved. Ivan was awake. Ivan was alive.

Before anything else, he wrote. He wrote and wrote until he could not anymore. And then he hid it, its pages full of tales and stories. He had a very long time to think carefully about what to write. And he knew that it was his duty to write it all down.

He then stumbled down the hallway, leaning on walls decorated with tapestries and paintings, for support. He reached the study. Zaroff looked up from his book. "Here we are again. You, with the same capabilities as you did as a child, and me." Ivan tried to look at him with a glare that could kill, but it was only a child's innocent look. He was vulnerable, and very much dependent upon the very man he despised with all of his heart. "Say you're sorry. Say it. SAY IT!" Zaroff screamed, throwing the table to the ground, scattering papers everywhere. The fire blazed higher. "SAY IT YOU OAF! Say it…" He collapsed, sobbing. "What have I done to you, my son. What have I done."

Swallowing was good. The scab had healed, and all that was left was a small stump. He could eat! Zaroff began to treat him as he did before. Not a cripple, but a person. His son. Little did Zaroff know that Ivan had no intentions of being his son ever, ever again.

One year. Two years. Five. Seven. Years didn't age Ivan anymore. Ever since the tongue incident, he started to fade altogether. How long must he be alive in this hell? When would his suffering end? Ivan's mind started to sway like the sea.

Ivan reached the age of 37? 38? What did it matter anymore?

Ivan unfolded  _Invictus_ and read it over again. It was his only pleasure in life anymore. Sometimes, he would try to picture a smiling father reading it to him, but always failed, for that face was foreign to him.

It must have been his millionth time reading the poem, but Ivan could feel something this time. It was as if a curtain had been covering a window and suddenly decided to fly open. This man in the poem, he was defying the odds, refusing to give up, persevering, he was… he was… surviving.  _I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul._ Ivan would not be forced to live his life in fear. He would survive! He would become the master of his fate, the captain of his soul!

As if on cue, an all too familiar voice yelled out to him, "Ivan! Come around back! I have a birthday present for you!"

 _Sure he does,_ Ivan thought. However, in the end, his curiosity got the best of him.

When Ivan arrived, he knew it was a mistake.  _Out of the night that covers me._

He saw the finished product of the machine Zaroff had been working on before. It was even more horrifying than it was before.  _Black as the pit from pole to pole._

It almost reminded Ivan of the chair that dentists used to treat their patients, or at least what Ivan had seen of them in the general's books.  _I thank whatever gods may be._

The main difference was the massive lump of metal and wires next to the chair.  _For my unconquerable soul._

"Ivan, would you like to take a seat?" the general asked with a hint of insanity in his voice.  _In the fell clutches of circumstance._

Ivan, of course, had no intention of getting anywhere near that machine for the thick, black liquid coming out was killing everything in its path.  _I have not cried or winced aloud._

"Ivan, I really think you should take a seat. We wouldn't want to force you now, would we? Oh, no. No we would not want that." the general responded with a psychotic laugh at the end.  _Under the bludgeonings of chance._

Ivan looked around wildly, trying to find a way out. There wasn't any.  _My head is bloody, but unbowed._

"Sit down, Ivan." The general forced a smile. "Come on, be a good boy now."  _Beyond this place of wrath and tears._

Ivan made a move to run, but the general's hand shot out and landed on his chest.  _Looms but the Horror of the shade._

Zaroff pulled out a hunting rifle. "Sit down Ivan." he said with his teeth clenched and a smile found its way upon his face.  _And yet the menace of the years._

Ivan sat. He had to get out. But how?  _Finds and shall find me unafraid._

Zaroff pulled a lever, and Ivan seized his chance. He kicked out, and his foot connected with bone.  _It matters not how strait the game._

Zaroff cried out in pain, but still worked without slowing. "Ivan, can't you see? There is no escaping."  _How charged the punishments the scroll._

Ivan knew that it was over. He could only hope that one day he would be able to fight it off.  _I am the master of my fate._

Click. The machine was on.  _I am the captain of my soul._

Ivan struggled to stay conscious.  _I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul._

Ivan felt drowsy.  _I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my…_

The colors blurred.  _I am the master of my fate. I am the captain…_

A pounding began in his head.  _I am the master of my fate. I am…_

His arms and legs went numb.  _I am the master of my fate…_

His heart was lead, dragging him down.  _I am the master…_

His brain was overloaded.  _I am…_

_I am…_

_I…_

…

_.._

_._

Ivan opened his eyes to a blinding light.  _Am I dead?_ Ivan questioned. He felt dizzy, like he had just woken up from a drugged sleep. His body was working though, even though he had just become aware of his own movements. There was something in his hand. It was a crumpled sheet of paper that he must have been clutching in his sleep. He carefully smoothed the old sheet and saw that it was titled "Invictus", but the rest was worn beyond legibility. He felt that he should remember it, that it was important, but the memory was out of his reach. In fact, he didn't remember anything at all. Only that he was the eternal servant of General Zaroff, as he always has been and always will be.

After the initial confusion had passed, Ivan found that he was in a plain room with a bed and a table. On the table was a booklet titled, "Maximum Evil: A Guide to Psychopathic Killing, Maiming, and Brainwashing" He picked it up. "Brainwashing?" he thought, "Have I been… brainwashed?" The word "killing" stirred an image of a military man who looked as though a malicious look had been permanently seared on to his face, staring at him with cruel, soulless eyes. Almost as soon as he had the thought, it was gone, dragged from his mind by some unknown force. The poem was still in his hand. His legs started walking, as if his body had a mind of its own. Eventually, he found himself standing in front of a pit of quicksand in Death Swamp. His arm lifted, swung forward, and released the crumpled piece of paper. It fell with a small splash- _like… a bird?_ -and was slowly consumed by the quicksand.

Ivan was working, polishing the silver in the hallway when he heard his master call, "Ivan, I have a treat for you."

Ivan walked into the study. Zaroff sat reading a book by the fireplace. He began to feel a sense of deja vu.  _Daddy? What have I done to you my son? Say you're sorry! I thought you wanted to hear the story, not tell it. Where were my parents?_

"Ivan? Did you hear me?" Ivan gave a curt nod of his head. "I said that I would like for you to whip the man in the guest chambers."

Ivan cocked his head in confusion. Zaroff, misreading his expression, said "Use the family whip. In the guest rooms. On the man in there. Now."

Ivan shuffled out of the study to the end of the hall, where the dreaded whip hung. Ivan had always had a sense of fear every time he approached it, but he did not know why. A sudden blackness overtook his mind as he felt his consciousness slipping away.

Ivan was suddenly fourteen years old again.

His flesh seared. Sweat dripped into the sharp cuts oozing pus, that were flanked on either side by red inflamed welts.  _SNAP!_  "AHHH!" Ivan screamed. "ZAROFF! STOP! PLEASE!"

Zaroff seemed to relish the pain he caused. "Well, Ivan. We probably shouldn't have tried to climb out the window, now, should we?" He brought the whip down again.

Ivan was past the point of screaming. It had all gone numb now. His back had been reduced to patches of flesh scattered in an ocean of blood. His skin was slick with blood and sweat, and his face with tears as well. A thin veil of green smoke was rising slowly and steadily from his first the pain had been unbearable, but for Ivan, it had now all gone numb. It had all gone numb.

Ivan shook his head, clearing away spots of blackness and any remainder of the memory, and reached for the poisonous whip. He seized it and went to the guest wing. His victim was there.

"PLEASE STOP! I'LL BE HUNTED! PLEASE!" Ivan mercilessly lashed the man with the whip. The man's back started to release a green, poisonous smoke that seared his body. He cried out a shriek that made Ivan shiver. The man's bone began to show through what was now the thin layer of his skin amidst the blood, torn flesh, and muscle.

Ivan began to feel sick and light-headed. The same blackness overtook his sight as he sank into another vision.

"This is what a knouter did," Zaroff calmly said as Ivan thrashed against the bonds that pulled his arms to the walls on either side, "They worked for the Czar, much like you will work for me. You have to earn back all the trust you lost, and trust me, you fell fa-" His words were cut off as Ivan let off a blood-curdling scream that echoed through the whole house.

"Now, we can't be screaming like a little child, Ivan. You need to be stronger for what's ahead. See, I have found a new prey."  _SNAP_. "It's stronger, smarter, and faster. But this prey may not agree to being hunted. So I need you."  _SNAP_. "I need you to convince them."  _SNAP_. "And that may require doing things you don't want to do, but remember, I want you to do those things, and I want you to do them without hesitation."  _SNAP_. "So,"  _SNAP_. "You,"  _SNAP_. "Will,"  _SNAP_. "Convince,"  _SNAP_. "Them."  _SNAP._  "-Are we clear?"

Finally, Ivan was allowed a small mercy. He fell unconscious.

Ivan snapped back into reality. The man let out a few final choking breaths and fell to the ground. The light left his tortured eyes. Ivan be like… whoa…. he dead. Ivan saw a piece of paper sticking out of the man's pocket. He felt drawn towards it, almost as if the paper was a magnet, pulling him in. He reached down and pulled it free from the corpse. It was titled,  _Invictus._

_Invictus_

_By: William Ernest Henley_

" _Out of the night that covers me,_

_Black as the pit from pole to pole,_

_I thank whatever gods may be_

_For my unconquerable soul._

_In the fell clutches of circumstance_

_I have not cried or winced aloud_

_Under the bludgeonings of chance_

_My head is bloody, but unbowed._

_Beyond this place of wrath and tears_

_Looms but the Horror of the shade_

_And yet the menace of the years_

_Finds and shall find me unafraid._

_It matters not how strait the game_

_How charged the punishments the scroll,_

_I am the master of my fate,_

_I am the captain of my soul."_

As Ivan blankly stared at the piece of paper, a memory started to emerge from the depths of his brain. Then the memory suddenly faded like a faded memory. Ivan, clutching the paper, walked to the trophy room where he released the poem into the flames. The paper curled into ash as it disintegrated in the depths of the fire.  _Done._

Ivan scoured his hands of any blood or soot, and then went back to the trophy room to receive further instructions from Zaroff. He saw his master standing next to the fire, gazing at a new pile of ash that sat at the bottom of the fireplace. "Ivan, I need you to get the hounds. We have a game to play."

The hunts continued. Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. Nothing would ever change, it seemed. Ivan would always stand there, silent, while Zaroff explained the game. He would stand there while the prisoner would scream and shout at the general. He would stand there while Zaroff gave his ultimatum. And he would stand there while the prey went to go get ready for the hunt.  _Nothing would_ ever  _change,_ Ivan decided,  _nothing would ever change."_

The dogs yanked on the leash, pulling Ivan towards their prey. Branches snapped and plants were trampled as they made their way across Ship-Trap island. Carrying his pistol, Zaroff strolled confidently with Ivan and the hounds following on his left. Zaroff suddenly turned his head to the right even though Ivan had heard nothing at all.

"He is this way! Let's go and play with him!" Zaroff exclaimed with a happy-psychotic tone to his voice, like a very happy group of friends that live in trees.

Ivan had to sprint to catch up with Zaroff. One he knew where his prey was, there was no stopping him.  _Zaroff seems unusually excited about this one,_ Ivan thought. The general suddenly halted, and Ivan almost stumbled into him as he tried to contain the hounds.

"Wait. I want  **you**  to hunt him. Am I clear?" A brief nod. "Now give those dogs to me, take my pistol, and go! Don't let me down." Zaroff strode off into the wood. All Ivan knew was that he could not and would not disappoint Zaroff. So the hunt began...

Ivan felt a rush of adrenaline course through his veins. He was close, and could practically smell the man. He was confused though. The man never once tried to hurt him, even though Ivan was merciless and relentless in his pursuit.

There! Ivan caught a glimpse of the man's clothing through the thick tapestry of wood and leaves. Soon the hunt would be over. Ivan dashed after the man with new vigor in his limbs. This one was fast, especially for his age. Ivan heard what he thought was the blood rushing through his ears, but he soon realized it was the sound of the ocean. He noticed the scent of salt in the air, blown by the light breeze. Suddenly, hunter and prey burst out of the trees, right to the edge of a steep cliff. The old man skidded to a halt, spun around, and said something Ivan could have never imagined.

"Ivan! Son! Please! My little boy, what has happened to you?" The old man's wrinkly features contorted and twisted just as much as his sad, blue eyes wrenched Ivan's soul. And then it didn't. And then it did. A battle was being fought inside Ivan as he grappled for control. He managed to get in one word.

"Papa?"  _NO!_ A deep voice, sounding suspiciously like Zaroff's resounded in his head, vanquishing his own consciousness. The man had to be eliminated. And Ivan was happy to obey his master. BANG! BANG! BANG! The old man's body thrashed, then was still. Ivan picked it up and emotionlessly dragged it away.  _Can't leave anything for sailors to see._

Ivan returned to the house, having completed his task. Once inside, he washed his hands, blood circling around the sink before being washed away through the drain. He began to feel panicked.  _What was that voice? And who was that man?_ Ivan gripped the sink and breathed heavily, feeling nauseous as his gut turned and twisted. He finally vomited into the sink. He knew something had happened to him.  _How could he not have a firm grasp on the memory of his father? Shouldn't Zaroff be enough?_

 _Nothing would ever change,_  Ivan had thought. But the hunter changed everything. Ivan heard a knock at the door one night.  _Answer it prepared to shoot,_ the strange voice inside his head commanded. Just before Ivan obeyed, his own voice resounded inside his head.  _I am the master of my fate._ He ignored the strange line and opened the door with his gun pointed at the victim. The man immediately exploded into a defense saying his name was Sanger Rainsford and he was from New York. He kept droning on about how he fell off his ship and his trip to the house. Ivan was ready to fire when Zaroff rushed to door and seemingly greeted their new guest.

That night, Ivan stared longingly into the fire as Zaroff insinuated the details of the hunt to Sanger Rainsford's. He could see the look of terror in the hunted's eyes. Ivan, on the other hand, saw nothing wrong with the concept of the hunt for he would always be loyal to the general.  _It is not right; the hunt is immoral._ Ivan once again dismissed the doubting voice from within his head.

Ivan was then removed from the room by General Zaroff where he heard shouting as the conversation between the general and Rainsford started to get heated. Ivan did not leave his listening spot behind the door until Rainsford agreed to be hunted.

Finally, after Zaroff had been out hunting, they sat alone. Zaroff, as usual, described his game with an air of polite interest and enthusiasm. After hearing this hundreds of times, he saw right through Zaroff's kindly smile. He saw something different about this talk, though. Ivan suddenly realized that Rainsford must be a hunter. He listened to Rainsford question deeply about what Zaroff called the 'Most Dangerous Game'. He became puzzled and exhilarated when Rainsford became the first person to guess what the game was before he was told. He did not know if this was a bad or good thing. Then came the old threat of whipping this man. He knew he looked heartless and cruel. He would terrify this man. Ivan realized that had always been Zaroff's plan. He never loved him as a son. The old general, the man he had aged with, thought of Ivan as a pawn in his game. He terrified everyone, all for Zaroff's benefit, and now he knew it. He hated this part of his mien even more, with every single part of his caring soul. He knew he had done unspeakable things. But, then he realized there was one thing that separated him from Zaroff. He repented for his actions. He, Ivan, tried to ask for forgiveness from whoever controlled his fate. This dawned on him and he grew impatient to see what Rainsford would do. He saw Rainsford give a cry and accuse Zaroff of murder, just like every other man whose soul stepped upon the treacherous island. Zaroff calmly stated his reasoning while Rainsford sputtered defyingly. Knowing he could not escape the poisonous honey he was being cooked in by Zaroff, he stomped off to his room. Then, just before leaving the room, Zaroff looked directly at Ivan and smiled menacingly. Ivan knew this was no mistake. Zaroff knew he had heard every word.

His suspicions were confirmed when he was pulled aside by Zaroff that night, after he had hunted Rainsford.

"My dear Ivan," he began, "why were you spying on us this afternoon?" Ah! I have forgotten," he mocked, "you can not speak!" He laughed at his joke and then became very serious. "If I ever catch you spying on me again I will make no hesitation to hunt you. IS. THIS. CLEAR?" the last three words were sledgehammers banging on metal.

Ivan stomped his foot in defiance.

"Goodbye, my son." Zaroff walked briskly out of the room, leaving Ivan to ponder his own thoughts.

The hounds pulled at the carriage that Zaroff was riding in. Zaroff smiled. He knew exactly where Rainsford was. He went to a place just South of where he found Rainsford the previous day. He quickly noticed a Malay-man-catcher. He tried to ride to the left of it but one of the hounds got out of control and caught his shoulder. He winced in pain. "Good one Rainsford. I will come back tomorrow and get rid of you for good!"

That night, Zaroff approached Ivan. "Tomorrow," he said, "You will hunt with me. I might need some… assistance."

Ivan tried to protest (with little avail due to his lack of a tongue) but was cut off by Zaroff. "Now, we can't have you acting like this tomorrow, can we? I will see you tomorrow."

The next day, Zaroff did as he said. The hounds pulled them along. He looked briefly at Ivan, trying to study him. He saw fear in Ivan's eyes. A kind of fear that he had never experienced. Terror. He rode on and made a sharp right. He knew where he was going. Death Swamp. Death Swamp was his favorite place to hunt. The terrain and natural traps made it so enticing. He suddenly noticed some dirt covering some quicksand. He tried to stop but he was moving too quickly. His favorite hound slipped and fell in. He stared, emotionless. Ivan though he almost saw a smile.

"Nice job Rainsford. You took one of my best hounds." And then he continued on.

Later in the day, the general saw a knife trap. He had a striking idea. "Ivan," he said, "you take the lead. Let's see your tracking skills."

Ivan wished he could simply say "no", but he could not due to an obvious reason.  _You will do anything I… Zaroff says._ And so he would. And so he did.

As he walked ahead of the general, his mind started to turn like gears in a machine. He was a just a pawn. His purpose was to be controlled. For fear. For destruction. For death.  _I am a vital piece to the hunt,_ some strange voice strange said from the depths of his brain. He knew he should believe the voice, but it somehow felt foreign like a different language.  _I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul._ It was the only voice that was not foreign for the other was not his voice! It was Zaroff's! Ivan's memories came flooding back as if his imaginary dam had given in to the rushing water. Zaroff cut out his tongue. Zaroff killed his parents. Ivan would not be a pawn in the general's game. He would become the captain of his soul.

Ivan saw the knife. It reflected the dull, lifeless light of the crescent moon. Ivan heard another voice in his head, but it was not the cold, mesmerizing voice of Zaroff. It was his own.  _Time to die!_ Then Ivan willingly jumped into the trap, eager for his release from his prison of a life.

He felt himself drifting, weightless, to an unknown destination. When his feet finally landed on solid ground, he looked around. He saw nothing. Just white space. He suddenly saw two figures running towards him.

"Mama… Papa…"

**EPILOGUE**

After a long night's rest, Rainsford dragged the body. He had cleaned the body. And now he was contemplating what to do with it. Knowing the man was long gone, he decided to conduct a funeral of sorts. Taking all items out of the man's pockets, he found a piece of paper and a diary. He read the paper, which happened to be a poem by the name of  _Invictus_. Although Rainsford considered it mere garbage, the hunter knew that he should leave the paper with the man.

Rainsford patted the soil around the grave he had dug. It was simple and unmarked, just another hill amongst the landscape of the accursed island. The questions,  _Who was this man?_ and  _What did he do?_ drifted briefly through Rainsford's mind. He did not know the answer and did not think he ever would. He suspected the secret would remain with the island forever.  _You shall travel beyond this place of wrath and tears, Ivan._

The man inside rested with only a poem and a book. The poem had meant something to the man, for it had the signs of wrinkling that only folding and unfolding can bring. He had spent many hours wondering if he should leave it with its owner, or to show the world the abomination that Zaroff had been. He had decided,  _Some things are better left untold_ , as he gently placed it upon the chest of the true hero. Even though he could have ended Zaroff's life a few hours earlier if he had not been killed, he was still a symbol of strength to Rainsford. He now knew that he, himself was not truly a man of character. This man, this tortured man, was a true show of character. He was strong and fought back when many others would have fallen. He had suffered many hardships and had fought through them all. The epiphany hit him like a ton of bricks. He was no ordinary man. He was IVAN.

**Author's Note:**

> ...yeah we were a gang of strange seventh graders who watched too much Happy Tree Friends. And were, in retrospect, abnormally good at prose for a gang of seventh graders.


End file.
